


So Let the Storm Come

by RosalindInPants



Series: May Drabbles [4]
Category: The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, M/M, Sword and Pen interludes, if you've read the book you already know who the death is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 09:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24348976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosalindInPants/pseuds/RosalindInPants
Summary: A series of character moments set during the tiny gaps of available time in Sword and Pen. Filling the following prompts:May 24th: Khalila’s FistsMay 25th: Morgan’s Wardrobe (major canon death)May 26th: Glain’s NotesMay 27th: Jess’ Weapon (serious canon illness)May 28th: Thomas’ Tattoo (Rome flashback, nonconsensual tattoo)May 29th: Dario’s HairMay 30th: Wolfe’s Tie and Nic's handsMay 31st: Nic’s Hands and Wolfe's Tie (grief, canon character death)There will be angst. A major character death from the book will be explored. Here there be spoilers.
Relationships: Dario Santiago/Khalila Seif, Niccolo Santi/Christopher Wolfe
Series: May Drabbles [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1725844
Comments: 12
Kudos: 12
Collections: Volume Two - May Event for The Great Library





	1. Khalila's Fists

**Author's Note:**

> Doing the song as fic title thing for the first time in years. Title comes from a line of "I Will Never Die" by Delta Rae, which, incidentally, is the most Morgan song I have ever heard.

Reading Glain’s message, dull pain pricked Khalila’s palms. Her nails, digging into skin only barely healed from burns.

“We have reports of rogue automata behind our lines at the northeast gate,” she said into the tense silence of the conference room. She hardly knew why she spoke. What could the Curia do?

While they muttered uselessly, messages continued to appear on the page.

_ I’m working on it. _ Morgan’s handwriting.

_ I’m nearby. Diverting for this. _ Wolfe’s neat penmanship.

_ Don’t worry, querida, I’m going. _ Dario’s lovely flourished script.

They were going to her. Everyone who could. Not Jess, deathly ill and under Medica care. Not Santi, commanding an army in the thick of battle.

And not Khalila, trapped in this room, bound by the gleaming golden chains of her robes and crown.

Her fists tightened, useless as the muttering of the Curia.


	2. Morgan's Wardrobe (Canon character death)

If she’d known she was going to die, Morgan would have worn a better dress. In books, when the hero faced death, their life would flash before their eyes, but Morgan saw only one memory in the instant after she spoke her last words. That night in Castle Raby, when she’d walked down the stairs and into her doom wearing the most beautiful gold velvet dress she’d ever seen. The finest thing she’d ever worn, by far. She remembered the exact shade of gold, the softness of the fabric against her skin, the freedom of the open neckline, the powerful sweep of the skirt and the look in Jess's eyes when he caught sight of her. She'd felt powerful in that dress, ready to face the terrible things to come.

That was a dress worth dying in, but all she had now were day-old work clothes. A plain shirt and trousers, thrown on just before leaving with Wolfe to save Glain’s life. Stained with ash and blood. All those hours in between, and she’d never found time to change. She would have, if only she’d known.

If she had to die, she wanted to die in that golden dress. Let that be the last her friends saw of her. Let that be the last image of her in Jess’s mind, just like she’d wanted it to be back in England, when she’d thought she was so sure they were going to their deaths.

She’d known nothing then. This was certainty, standing before the fire with her power pouring out and the ring whispering in her ear, _Ah, to be so young and vain again. Make your choice, girl. Time does not wait for you._

She stepped forward, and she heard the others cry out. They still thought they could save her, but they didn’t feel the corruption eating at her from within. One way or another, she would burn.

She chose to burn clean and let a new world rise from her ashes.

She walked into the inferno, power and flames alike surging to meet her, flowing around her body in a gown no living human could wear. A dress worth dying in, more beautiful even than the gold velvet she’d left behind.

Another step and it consumed her, and dresses mattered no more.


	3. Glain's Notes

At the Medica, Glain took notes. It was something she’d learned to do as a Postulant, just last year though it seemed much longer. It was hard to remember being that starry-eyed student who hung on Zara Cole’s every word, overflowing with pride to have earned training with a gold band lieutenant. She’d have laughed if anyone told her then that in a year’s time, she would want Zara dead.

_“If you want to get back to work right away, you’re going to have to turn down the pain pills,” Zara had told her while they sat waiting for a Medica to look at the gash Glain had torn in her leg during the day’s training. “Here, they’ll inject an anesthetic before they stitch you, but that won’t always be possible out in the field. Helps to have a distraction. So you ask them what to do with it after, and you take notes. You’ll be glad you did.”_

She hadn’t even needed stitches that day, but she needed them now, and she took notes while the Medica worked, ignoring the twinge of guilt at following Zara’s advice. She wrote down wound care procedures that she already knew as well as her own name. Dosages and times for the course of antibiotics they were prescribing. The date the stitches would come out. There was a touch of superstition to writing it. If she put the date in ink, she would live to see it.

All too likely, she wouldn’t. While the needle pierced and tugged, she overheard snatches of conversation from other patients coming in. She divided her page into two columns and wrote those down, too, piecing together the larger picture. There’d been an attack in the Iron Tower, another in the Serapeum. The Russians were massing at the northeast gate. They’d try an attack soon. Soldiers being discharged were ordered to the wall.

Her own orders from Captain Botha came in when the Medica was nearly done with the bandages. _Report to the northeast gate_. She held the page up and asked, “Am I clear to go?”

The Medica glanced down at the Codex. “Captain Botha. Oh. You were one of Santi’s. That explains it.”

Glain looked over her shoulder, eyebrows raised.

“You’re all the same. Take meticulous notes and don’t follow a single one of them. You almost died, soldier. That claw barely missed your spine. But out you go to try and get yourself killed again. I’ll clear you. Doubt you’d stay if I told you to.” With an air of defeat, the Medica signed the discharge form and moved on to the next patient.

 _You’re all the same._ So it wasn’t just Zara who took notes. It shouldn’t have mattered so much, but it did. It felt better to know she’d conformed to company practice rather than emulated a traitor. And she was on her way to fight with the Blue Dogs, where she belonged.

Shrugging on her uniform, Glain went to go check on Jess.


	4. Jess's Weapon (serious canon illness)

Sitting in the bed that the Medica had threatened to chain him to, Jess put away his Codex and stylus, leaving his letter to his father unsent on its page. He didn’t know what he wanted to do with it yet, only that he didn’t want to send it and have to see his father’s replies. Maybe he’d send it later, closer to the end. Maybe he’d leave the choice to someone else.

It would be Wolfe, he supposed. He could ask; the Scholar sat in the corner as he’d promised Glain and the Medica he would, hunched over his Codex with his glasses on. But asking would mean admitting to Wolfe that he was dying.

So he said nothing. He paged through his Codex, failing to find anything he could focus on reading. He tried and failed to stop himself from coughing too much. He pretended not to see the way Wolfe’s eyes flicked up, worried, at every cough.

Wolfe tried to hide it when he received the message. His Codex must have been set to give a silent alert, but he turned the page too suddenly, and that caught Jess’s attention. Whatever Wolfe saw, it was urgent. He closed his Codex, put away his glasses, and stood.

“You should sleep, Brightwell,” he said, giving Jess a critical look that didn’t quite conceal his real concern.

“So you can run off without me,” Jess countered. “What is it? The Archivist?” Only after the words were out did he realize that it could be either of the two people who held that title. The former Archivist might have been sighted, but it was equally possible that Khalila was in danger. His friend, now risen to the most powerful position in the world.

Maybe he would have the chance to congratulate her before he died. It didn’t seem likely.

“That’s none of your concern,” Wolfe said in a tone that left no room for argument. “I’ll be back shortly, and I expect to find you still in this bed.”

Even odds that Wolfe was lying, but Jess didn’t have the breath to call him on it. He could feel another cough building deep in his chest, and he wanted Wolfe gone before he let it out. “I’ll stay,” he said, pausing for a shallow breath. “I promise.”

Wolfe regarded Jess for a moment, then laid a hand on his shoulder, surprisingly gentle. “See that you do. Whatever your father may have convinced you of, your life has value, Jess. Don’t hurry to throw it away.”

Jess could only nod. The weight of Wolfe’s gaze was too heavy, the pressure in his lungs too much.

A soft pat on Jess’s shoulder, and Wolfe turned, leaving the room without another word. Jess managed to hold back the cough until the Scholar was out of sight, but he paid for it in painful, gasping spasms. He held the mask to his face, but the alchemy in it was losing its power over him. It took too long to catch his breath again, but when he did, his mind was made up. He couldn’t sit in this bed and wait to die.

 _I’m not throwing my life away if it’s already over_. Taking slow, careful breaths, he swung first one leg, then the other over the side of the bed. As he slid his feet into his boots, the glint of steel on the bedside table caught his eye. His sidearm. And leaning against the wall next to it, his rifle.

Fortunate that he’d taken his weapons from Anit. If they’d been from the High Garda stores, they would already have been taken and redistributed when the Medica declared him unfit for duty. These, though, were his personal property, left with him until he recovered.

Or until he realized he never would and decided to get up anyway. With the handgun in its holster and the rifle over his shoulder, he could almost ignore the burning in his lungs. He could pretend, just for a little longer, that he was still in fighting shape. Just long enough to help his friends, his family, one last time.

Jess let himself have a good cough to clear his lungs, then he set out to catch up with Wolfe.


	5. Thomas's Tattoo (Rome flashback, nonconsensual tattoo)

“I have something for you, before we start,” Morgan said.

They’d just sat down to go over a collection of documents detailing the city’s defense systems, old mechanisms that hadn’t been used in centuries. It seemed a great responsibility for someone only just formally named a Scholar, until he remembered that the Artifex Magnus and all of her best Scholars were already occupied with activating the more up-to-date systems and installing the new Ray of Apollo on the Lighthouse. Compared to those tasks, this one was less immediate. Someone more qualified would take over when they could, surely.

“What is it?” Thomas asked, looking curiously at the wooden box Morgan had taken from her pocket. Was it a tool case? He probably needed tools. He’d been assigned an office, but he hadn’t had a chance to take inventory.

An office. Responsibilities. The title of Scholar. They were things he had wanted since he was a child, but he could no longer wrap his mind around having them.

Morgan held out the box to him. “You’re a Scholar now. Officially, I mean. I thought you ought to have one of these.”

For some reason, Thomas’s hand shook as he took the box. As if it knew before he did what he would find inside. He opened the lid.

There, resting on dark velvet, was a band of gold. Inscribed with Library seals and hieroglyphs. Reflecting the light from the window.

He stared at it, his mind reeling with memories. Nights in Ptolemy house sketching and building, imagining that the work he did might earn him this honor. Nights in the dark, weighed down by iron where the gold should have been. Voices. 

_“No band on this one? I’ll get the tattoo kit, then. What number are we on?”_

5724\. Library seals to either side. Black ink on the inside of his wrist. He’d been so drugged when they did it that he hadn’t even been sure it was his own wrist. It had felt like he floated outside his body, watching things happening to a stranger.

“Does this bother you?” Morgan asked, soft and gentle. She was holding his hand - when had that happened? - running her fingertips over the tattoo. “I can remove it, if you’d like. It should never have been here.”

Bother him. That was a strange thought. Did it? Maybe it did. It didn’t hurt. He didn’t like to look at it, but it was not so hard to smudge a little dirt over it and cover it up.

He would not have to do that if Morgan removed the tattoo. But then, if it was not there, how would he know it had really been his wrist? He would have no proof.

“No, thank you,” he said. “That is not necessary. The band will cover it.”

Morgan smiled. “Yes, it will. May I?”

He nodded, and she lifted the bracelet from the case to fasten it around his wrist with fingers as soft as down. When she snapped it closed, the gold fused together, leaving not even a seam. For a dizzying moment, Thomas felt again that he was looking at someone else’s wrist.

“It will not come off, then?” he asked, his voice sounding very far away. He was dreaming, he thought, and he wondered where he would find himself when he woke.

But Morgan’s voice was too clear for a dream. “No, no, it will come off. I’ve made sure of it. You press this symbol here, and it will open.” She took his other hand and guided it to the right place.

Seams and hinges reappeared, and the bracelet opened. Catching a glimpse of black ink on the skin beneath, Thomas closed it again.

When he looked up, Morgan was watching him with a knowing look. “I would never put a shackle on you, my friend. Is it comfortable like this?”

“Yes, this is good,” he said, forcing a smile. “Thank you.”

The room was hot, the air heavy. Too humid, a sign of coming rain. Thomas poured himself a glass of cold water from the pitcher on the table and drank half in one gulp. Belatedly realizing he’d been rude, he offered the pitcher to Morgan, but she shook her head. Oh, right. She had her pot of tea. So English. Jess probably liked that about her.

Thomas reached for the top page in the stack of documents. “We should get to work,” he said. There was no time to waste.

“Of course, Scholar Schreiber,” Morgan said, shifting her chair closer to examine the page with him.


	6. Dario's Hair

Dario could see his own reflection in the glass. That was a problem. Mostly because being able to see straight meant he was nowhere near drunk enough yet, but also because he was a complete mess. His clothes were not fit to be worn, his hair not fit to be seen, and there was something smudged on his face that resisted his attempts to scrub it away with his handkerchief.

He ran his fingers through his hair, but that only made it worse.

The problem, really, was that he wasn’t drunk enough. He gulped down the foul-tasting liquor - he hadn’t asked what it was and didn’t particularly care - and slid the glass back toward the bartender along with another coin.

The bartender took both without a word. Dario appreciated that. The last thing he wanted was to make conversation.

That made it especially irritating when his private journey into alcohol-fueled oblivion was disrupted. He didn’t look up at the sound of the door, which should have been enough of a hint if his smell alone didn’t drive any would-be drinking companions away, but he was hardly surprised when the stool next to him scraped its way out and a body settled down onto it. Of course he couldn’t even get drunk in peace.

“Some weather we’re having,” the stranger said. Dario knew neither the voice nor the face, but the uniform was familiar enough. High Garda black and gold.

He should have known that Santi wouldn’t trust him even so far as to get drunk unsupervised.

“What, does the Lord Commander think I need a babysitter?” Dario snapped in reply. “The job is done. I’m done. Go away.” He turned pointedly back to his drink, swallowing half of it in a single gulp.

“Nothing like that,” the soldier said, setting a small velvet pouch on the bar. “I was sent to deliver this.”

“Well, consider your mission accomplished, then,” Dario said as he took it and opened it, not quite sure what to expect. The bag was the size of a coin purse, but it couldn’t be money. Santi didn’t think _that_ little of Dario.

Did he?

But no, it was a gold Library band, like the one Dario had left behind in his Lighthouse room. For a panicked heartbeat, he thought that Santi must have gone through his things to retrieve it, until his pickled brain recalled that these bracelets all looked alike. It wasn’t the same one. Probably.

“I also have a message,” the soldier continued while Dario sat there holding the bracelet like the drunk fool he was, trying to think through the implications of it. “The Lord Commander thanks you for-”

_For betraying the right people this time. For your exceptional talent at deception and dishonesty. For stabbing Spain in the back instead of the Library. For doing the job the High Garda didn't have the balls to do._

“Tell him he can shove his message up his ass for all I care.”

The soldier coughed. “In that case, another message. Scholar Seif is worried about you.” The words were spoken very quickly, and then the soldier stood and saluted. “Good day to you, Scholar Santiago.”

Wonderful. Now the bartender was glaring at him. This wasn’t the kind of place Library personnel were welcome. Just to annoy the bastard, Dario looked him right in the eye while he put on the gold band and slowly finished his drink, smiling all the while. Not an easy feat to accomplish when the stuff tasted like raw sewage, but worth it for the look on the man’s face.

He put the glass down and stood without leaving a tip to saunter into the bathroom. If he was going to see Khalila - and he _had_ to go see Khalila now, damn Santi for knowing exactly how to make Dario come like a fucking lapdog - he had to do something about the disgraceful state of his hair.


	7. Wolfe's Tie and Nic's Hands

Wolfe’s tie refused to stay knotted properly. The damned thing kept coming loose while he worked, slipping a little every time he tucked back a stray hair or straightened his collar. This was the trouble with wearing clothes that weren’t really his. Inferior quality. There had been neither time to go home for fresh clothes nor certainty that he wouldn’t walk through his own front door into a trap - something he was particularly wary of after the disaster in the Archivist’s office - so he was making do with what could be borrowed. He hadn’t asked whose they were. It didn’t matter. They fit, and that alone made them better than some things he’d worn.

Still, he missed having his own clothes. Not that there was anything wrong with the things he’d been wearing - High Garda uniforms were comfortable and sturdy, and gods knew the Brightwell tailors did fine enough work - but there was a comfort in wearing things he’d chosen for himself that he sorely missed.

It was more than half vanity to be dressed as he was, like a Scholar but for the armor he’d kept on beneath his shirt to calm Nic’s nerves. That flexible armored layer was High Garda issue, and the sensible thing to do would have been to wear a soldier’s uniform made to fit with it. He’d never much minded being mistaken for a soldier on missions, even used it to his advantage from time to time, but today was different. Today, of all days, he wanted to look the part of a Scholar, even if it meant fighting with a tie that wasn’t his own.

A familiar pattern of knocks at the door made him fumble another attempt at knotting the thing. No surprise that Nic tracked him down; this was one of the little study rooms he’d always favored when he worked in the Serapeum, and it wouldn’t be the first time Nic had disrupted his work in such a place. There was a complaint on the tip of his tongue as Nic entered the room, but it died at the sight of Nic in his dress uniform with new decorations pinned at the chest and collar. The Lord Commander’s insignia.

“Not temporary after all,” he said instead, the words coming out all thick and heavy.

Nic closed the door - it didn’t lock - and smiled as he came toward Wolfe. A sight for sore eyes, that smile, like sunlight through storm clouds. “The vote was unanimous,” Nic admitted. “But none of them wanted it, not in the middle of all this.”

“There’s no one better for the job and you know it.” The failed knot in Wolfe’s tie was proving particularly resistant to being picked out, forcing him to take his eyes off to the beautiful vision of Niccolo Santi in his dress uniform to examine the uncooperative strip of silk.

“That remains to be seen,” Nic said. He reached for Wolfe’s tie. “May I?”

Wolfe let his hands drop useless and shaking to his sides. “Go ahead.”

“I thought I might have missed you,” Nic said while his hands made embarrassingly easy work of untying the knot. “You weren’t with the Scholars for the election.”

“I told you I can’t be bothered with any of that,” Wolfe muttered. “I had work to do. Whoever they picked, it can’t be worse than the last one. And someone has to track down that old bastard before he comes to take his throne back.”

“Hmm.” Nic knotted the tie and pulled it snug at Wolfe’s throat, a hair looser than Wolfe himself might have done. As he straightened Wolfe’s collar, his fingers dipped down along Wolfe’s neck, touching the neckline of the armor. “Thank you for keeping this on,” he said softly. “You’re heading out, then?”

Wolfe could hear the resignation in his partner’s voice. The louder, more bitter part of him delighted in that. Nic clearly hadn’t forgotten the sharp words Wolfe had spoken on the subject of having his choices questioned. The deeper, quieter part of his heart ached.

“There are a few tips I need to follow up on,” he said by way of explanation.

“So you’ll miss the ceremony.” Neither a statement nor a question, but a statement of fact, not entirety absent of sorrow. Nic’s hands lingered around Wolfe’s neck, brushing his skin, smoothing back his hair, adjusting his Scholar’s robe to lay neatly across his shoulders.

Shaking his head, Wolfe let out a sigh. “I’ve always wanted to see you take that oath, Nic. I still do. But time is of the essence, and these things always drag on for hours.”

He could have gone and slipped out after Nic’s oath. They both knew that, but neither of them suggested it. Nic only rested his hands on Wolfe’s shoulders and kissed his forehead. “It would be too much. I know.” They both knew Nic didn’t mean the length of the ceremony.

Grateful for the things he didn’t have to say, Wolfe looked up to meet his lover’s eyes. “I’m sorry. Let me give you my congratulations now, at least.”

Wrapping his arms around Nic’s shoulders, Wolfe pulled his lover in for a slow and lingering kiss. The kind of kiss they used to share when they parted for missions, all bittersweet longing and aching hope. So much of their life together had been built on these stolen moments. His hands trembled against Nic’s neck, and Nic’s embrace was too tight, but neither of them complained. They both knew the odds they faced.

It took a few tries for them to part, and Wolfe wasn’t sure which of them pulled back first.

Wolfe’s hair had come loose, and Nic tied it back again, murmuring, “Be safe, _amore mio_. For Ra’s sake, keep the armor on.”

“Nic…” Wolfe’s voice faltered on his lover’s name. He should have had something to say in kind, an admonishment to stay safe, a plea to watch his back, but it all went dead between brain and lips. They’d done this a hundred times, at least, and he should have been able to accomplish it without undue difficulty.

On impulse, he reached for Nic’s hands, or maybe Nic reached for him first. Their fingers intertwined, Nic’s grasp strong and steady to stabilize Wolfe’s trembling. He’d always loved Nic’s hands, the power and the skill of them, the rough calluses and the neatly trimmed nails. Holding tight to those hands, Wolfe leaned in for one last, quick kiss on his lover’s lips.

“For luck,” he said. “God knows you’ll need it. Do try to refrain from charging headlong into battle. You can’t command anyone if you go and get yourself killed.”

Nic smiled at that, his green eyes glittering as he said, “Believe me, I’ve been briefed on my responsibilities.”

Smiling back, as well as could be managed, Wolfe released his partner’s hands and turned to gather his Codex and papers from the lone desk in the room. “Good. I’ll expect the full story of your victory once all this is over with.”

“I could say the same,” Nic said, holding the door for Wolfe. “A full accounting of how you ran the old bastard down, and a private celebration of our victories.”

All his things tucked away in their pockets, Wolfe stepped out into the hall. He gave Nic a crisp salute. “As you wish, commander. A proper congratulations for you at home when all this is over. We can open the good wine.”

“I’ll look forward to it, Scholar,” Nic said.

Wolfe didn’t linger. Drawing out the parting would only make it worse. He gave himself one last look at Nic, from the green of his eyes to the gold of his new insignia, and he turned, walking away at a brisk pace so that his robe billowed out behind him.


	8. Nic's Hands and Wolfe's Tie (canon character death, grief)

Before the funeral, Santi stopped by Jess’s room. Sure enough, Christopher was there, seated in the chair he’d been occupying for the better part of the past two days. The sight of him made a coil of yearning unfurl in Santi’s core. Blank open, glasses on, silver-streaked hair loose and curling around his shoulders while he looked at the page with thin-pressed lips. A casual observer would have thought him entirely focused on his reading, but Santi noted the way his lover had angled the book to give himself a clear line of sight over the top of the page to Jess Brightwell’s unconscious form. Hands so tight on the pages that the knuckles blanched.

The young man looked a little pinker today, Santi thought. Still unconscious, but the Medica in charge of his care had said to expect as much. It was the smell, more than anything else, that gave Santi hope. Not the harsh odor of disinfectants that permeated the place, not the thin traces of Chris’s spiced coffee forgotten and cooling in his half-full cup, but the absence of a scent Santi had come to recognize from sitting at the bedsides of dying soldiers. Though he couldn’t have described it exactly, there was always something not right in the air when death loomed near, and Santi smelled none of that here.

Chris looked up from the book, his sharp gaze fixing on Santi’s throat. “You’re wearing my tie.”

“Do you want it back?” Santi asked, only half serious. They’d always shared ties. The black silk shirt he had on was nominally Christopher’s, too, one cut wide enough in the shoulders to accommodate Santi’s larger frame. It had seemed fitting to wear something of Chris’s for this.

“And have you go underdressed? Perish the thought.” His eyes narrowed. “Shouldn’t you be at the Necropolis already?”

After half a lifetime together, Santi knew his lover’s thorns when he saw them, and the hazards of walking into the brambles. He took a single step closer. “I wanted to see you before I left.”

“Yes, well, you’ve seen me. You can go.” Chris looked back down at his book in blatant dismissal. He didn’t read. His eyes fixed to the center of the page as if to glare a hole through it.

Santi knew his lover’s thorns, and he knew how to see through to the hurt that they shielded. There was the tension in Chris’s frown, the tightness of his shoulders. The sight of him made Santi ache with sympathy as he approached, slow and steady, mindful of the briars of his lover’s mood. “I have a few minutes yet,” he said softly. “Enough time for a quick massage, if you’d like.”

Without looking up from the book, Chris rolled his shoulders. “Go on then. Give yourself something to do.”

Even with that invitation, Santi took it slow, laying both hands lightly on his lover’s shoulders. Not so lightly that he couldn’t feel the fine tremors carrying up from his partner’s hands. He stroked Chris softly until he felt Chris relax a little, accepting the touch. Only then did he let his fingers press into the tight muscles.

Chris kept his head down, ostensibly reading but fooling neither of them. Santi knew what comfort Chris took in touch, and his hands could feel the difference. Tension melting away. Tremors calming. Slower, deeper breaths. After a few minutes, Chris gave up on the pretense and let himself lean forward, resting his head against Santi’s stomach and opening more of his back to Santi’s ministrations.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I stayed with Jess?” Santi asked while he worked out a knot of tension between Chris’s shoulder blades. “I’m not required to go.”

None of them were. It was, in fact, unprecedented that anyone was invited at all. Obscurist funerals were traditionally held in the Iron Tower and closed to the public. But Morgan would have hated that.

Chris sat up and raised his head to give Santi a withering look. “Yes, leave  _ you _ alone with Jess Brightwell. An  _ excellent _ idea.”

The barb sunk in, and Santi took it without flinching. “I deserve that, don’t I?” Some of the tension was back in Chris’s body, and Santi switched to softer strokes across his shoulders and down his arms. “That’s fair. I haven’t earned back your trust yet. Or his.”

“You assume he will survive for you to do so,” Chris said, looking over toward the bed with shadows in his eyes and voice alike.

Santi followed his lover’s gaze to Jess, pale and still in the bed. It hurt to remember that he’d nearly killed the boy himself, and so recently. The weight of that hung with the rest of the guilt he’d earned himself in these past days. Murasaki. Morgan. He would have to bear it all; there was no other way forward.

“The medicine is working. He’ll be all right,” Santi said, realizing too late that he had no real grounds on which to stake that claim.

He braced for the inevitable rebuke, but it didn’t come. Instead, a harsh laugh echoed from the bare walls of the narrow room. “He said the same when it was you unconscious in bed,” Chris said.

Philadelphia. The burn. The doctor’s house. Santi couldn’t remember seeing Jess there, but then, he hadn’t been conscious for much of it. Mostly, he remembered Morgan. Her worried face. Her power. She’d saved his life, and he’d failed to repay that.

Santi sighed and looked back at his partner. “I shouldn’t be surprised. But I didn’t come here to talk about Jess. I only meant that if you wanted to go, you should. Morgan was more yours than mine.”

Hardly his at all, really. For all that he’d come to love these children who’d stolen Christopher’s heart, he’d scarcely had the chance to know Morgan, and he’d done her as much wrong as Jess, if not more. He’d fought every scrap of aid Chris wanted to give the poor girl, pushing and pushing until Chris relented and let him hand her over to the Iron Tower in chains. He’d broken Chris’s heart with that. The price of survival, he’d thought.

Too late to second guess those choices now.

Chris didn’t answer immediately. His head dropped, and he leaned it against Santi again, a shiver running down his back. “She wasn’t mine, either,” Chris whispered. “She wasn’t anyone’s but her own.” His body shook with tightly controlled emotion.

Santi wanted to gather Chris into his arms, to hold him and tell him it was all right to let that pain out. Draw out all the hurt and soothe him with gentle words and soft touches. Chris wouldn’t welcome that loss of control, though. Not now, not here. Santi could feel Chris bristling just from the presence of Santi's hands on his shoulders.

He knew what Chris would say even before Chris drew back from him. 

“You should go,” Chris said, pushing his glasses back up on his nose. “They’re doing a Catholic ceremony, and you know my knees can’t take all that. It will mean more to you, anyway.”

An excuse, but Santi took it, letting Chris have his dignity. “I’ll pay respects for us both, then,” he said, and left Chris to his book and his private grief at Jess’s bedside.


End file.
